Every morning I walk her to school because she’s terrified of walking alone. Afraid someone will hurt her like her father hurt her mother. I hold her hand and she tells me about her dreams. Usually nightmares. Sometimes good dreams where her mother is still alive.
“Daddy Mike, do you think my real daddy thinks about me?” she asked me this morning.
I never know how to answer that question. Her father is a monster who murdered her mother in front of her. But she’s eight. She still loves him despite what he did. That’s the tragedy of being a child—you love the people who hurt you most.
“I think he probably does, baby girl,” I said carefully. “But what matters is that you have people who love you now. Your grandma. Your teachers. Me.”
“You won’t leave me, will you?” She asks me this every day. Every single day for three years.
“Never, sweetheart. I’ll be here every morning until you don’t need me anymore.”
“I’ll always need you, Daddy Mike.”
The truth is, I need her too. Before I found Keisha, I was just existing. Riding from bar to bar. Working construction. Going home to an empty house. No purpose. No family. No reason to wake up except habit.
Now I wake up at 6 AM every day to make sure I’m never late for our morning walk. I’ve been to every school play, every parent-teacher conference, every field trip. I taught her to ride a bicycle. I help with homework I don’t understand. I learned to braid hair from YouTube videos.
Last year, Mrs. Washington had a stroke. She recovered but she can’t take care of Keisha like before. Social services started talking about foster care. About moving Keisha to another family.
I went to a lawyer the next day. Started the process to become a licensed foster parent. A fifty-seven-year-old single male biker trying to foster a little Black girl whose father is in prison for murder. The social workers looked at me like I was insane.
“Mr. Patterson, you have no experience with children. You have no family support system. You live alone. You ride a motorcycle. This is not an appropriate placement.”
